


The bloody drug list (not this time)

by Idjit_01



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Anorexia, Author Is Sleep Deprived, Blink And You Miss It Slash, Concerned John Watson, Eating Disorders, Eventual Fluff, Gen, I Can't Believe I Wrote This, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Mental Health Issues, My First Work in This Fandom, Mycroft Being Mycroft, Panic Attacks, Sherlock is a Mess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-03
Updated: 2020-06-03
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:41:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24516310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Idjit_01/pseuds/Idjit_01
Summary: "What- what arrrre-... You doing?" Sherlock managed to choke out."I was checking if you were still breathing. What is it- Is it drugs again? What is it this time? Oxy? Heroine? Meth?" Asked John, impossibly calm.Possibly his disappointment was clouding any strong emotion he would usually display in such a situation, just as anger or sadness, Sherlock thought. How else would he be this calm if he thought he had relapsed?TW: Eating Disorders.TW: Drug abuse mention.Read with caution.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes & John Watson, Mycroft Holmes & Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 4
Kudos: 110





	The bloody drug list (not this time)

"What- what arrrre-... You doing?" Sherlock managed to choke out.

"I was checking if you were still breathing. What is it- Is it drugs again? What is it this time? Oxy? Heroine? Meth?" Asked John, impossibly calm.

Possibly his disappointment was clouding any strong emotion he would usually display in such a situation, just as anger or sadness, Sherlock thought. How else would he be this calm if he thought he had relapsed?

For John's dismay, Sherlock only shook his head. He felt hazy and sluggish and really didn't want to deal with anyone right now. Less of it with someone stubborn who cared, such as John.

"Okay." John huffed. He evaluated his friend thoughtfully. After a silence so long Sherlock felt himself dozing off again, John finally spoke. "If you aren't up taking cases by the day after tomorrow, I'm calling Mycroft."

Sherlock knew were John was going. Rehab. Which he wouldn't mind, not really. Because this time that wasn't his problem. If he thought he was on drugs, fine, he could take it. But Mycroft would see right through him. After all, this wasn't the first time this has happened. So he had to stand up. But, oh, he was just so tired. 

~

He couldn't tell how much time had passed when he woke up again. Only that his bladder felt like it was going to burst any second. He stood up and swayed on his feet, black spots clouding his vision. 

This time no one was around. He could take his time. Walking the few steps it took to get to the bathroom felt like his bones were made of lead and his suddenly faltering vision didn't help to get there. After what seemed like hours, he finally sat on the toilet, too tired to stand in front of it. He closed his eyes, overwhelmed with the notion of what this meant. His body was getting too weak. At least he could still stay in his mind palace.

~

A persistent, incredibly annoying pounding woke him up.

"Sherlock!?" Someone was shouting. Someone... Vaguely familiar. He couldn't recall where he had heard that voice before or why the person was shouting. Focusing on listening was such a hardship, but he knew that voice was important for him somehow, so. "Damn it! Sherlock. If you don't let me in right this minute I'll bring the door down."

~

"I want the list." John said when he saw Sherlock's eyes flutter open.

"Wha-?" Sherlock responded, still taking in his surroundings. He was in a... Bed? How had he gotten there? Why did John sound so frustrated? He looked him over. Was he... Concerned? Why?

"The list. The one you promised Mycroft for when you relapse. For when you overdose. The bloody drug list."

Sherlock blinked tiredly. He blinked again. His eyelids felt so heavy and he really didn't want to deal with this...

~

"He won't give me the bloody list." Sherlock heard from above. He kinda felt like he was underwater and recognizing where he was and with who took more time than he'd ever admit.

He felt a gaze quickly settling on him and he squirmed, uncomfortable.

"That's because he doesn't have one." Wait... Was that Mycroft? "Am I not right, Shelly?"

He groaned. 

"I don't know what you're talking about." His voice felt foreign and it hurt to speak, but he had to answer. He didn't want Mycroft to think it was worse than it was and if he thought he wasn't able to speak, well, let's just say it wouldn't be good.

Mycroft sighed. "I don't have time for your games." He waited a moment for an answer, but when he knew he wouldn't get one he just sighed again, rubbing his eyes with his right hand. "Okay. You want to play? Let's have dinner."

Sherlock heard John suck a breath, as if he suddenly understood everything. Huh? Since when was John so smart? He was tensed up, since his stomach really didn't agree with what Mycroft had proposed. But he knew that if he refused, Mycroft would have won. And he couldn't have that. Yeah, maybe Mycroft knew what he had been doing, but he wouldn't give him the satisfaction to recoil in his discovery. He wouldn't admit he had a problem. He didn't want to stop and if he admitted defeat right in this moment, it would be taken away from him. He wouldn't have that.

"Okay."

~

Sherlock had walked on his own to his chair and he didn't sway once. He was so proud of that. His body had felt like a feather in a storm, but falling over would just prove Mycroft right. He had focused all the (little) energy he could summon on the goal of getting to the chair and he had succeeded in a way the most intricate case being solved wouldn't top the high he felt from it.

The moment he smelled the steak and the potatoes though, he deflated. His stomach churn and his face fought with him to show the disgust he was feeling. He just wanted to leave. And maybe sleep. God, he was so tired.

The moment he saw the food in front of him he just wanted to cry. He couldn't have that. He just couldn't.

The steak was juicy and a tiny bit overcooked, sauce leaking off of it in all directions. The potatoes were on point. Gold crispy outside with, what he discovered when he started breaking them, a deliciously mushy inside. 

Disgusting. He shouldn't have that. He couldn't.

He looked around. Mycroft had already devoured a third of the steak and was humming as he did when he was really satisfied with the flavour. John was picking at his potatoes, throwing reassuring smiles in Sherlock's direction every few seconds.

"You know how it goes, Shelly. If you haven't eaten half of your plate by the time I'm finished, you leave me with no choice but-"

"Yeah, yeah." Sherlock interrupted, voice wavering. He didn't want to hear it. He didn't want Mycroft to win, but eating was something he couldn't fathom. He didn't want to give up the reassuring empty buzzing an empty stomach gave him. He didn't want to feel guilty and nauseous.

He decided to just work with what he had. He smashed the already tiny bits of potato he had been breaking with his fork and he mixed them with the tiny pieces of steak he had been working on. Whenever he thought no one was looking, he took pieces of the mess he had made and hid it in his pockets. It was disgusting, but he hadn't showered in days so he would have to wash it all anyways. And it wasn't like he was going to eat. He had already decided that. 

Around the fifth forkful he got in his pants right pocket, Mycroft started tsksing.

"You know that's futile, Sherlock. You perfectly know I know all your tricks. Do you really think you could outsmart me? Even if you were able in a normal day, which you aren't, you must remember that your brain isn't working as well as it should right now. If you're as far gone as I think, you're so nutritional deficient your brain must be working as a six year old's does. And not precisely as yours was at that age."

Sherlock just cursed under his breath. What was he going to do? He couldn't eat this. He felt the air tensing and his brain as if it were going to explode, oxygen deprivation-

A hand pressed on his knee, warmth seeping through his clothes. He looked at the owner of such hand. He was taking deep exaggerated breaths and suddenly he felt himself imitating him. When his breath evened out, John gave him a small smile.

"It's okay." John reassured. "It's okay. Take your time. You are okay."

Sherlock shook his head again, frowning. "I can't-" He tried, voice breaking.

"It is okay." John repeated. "We are here with you. It will be okay. You will be okay."

Sherlock nodded. 

"What do you need?"

Sherlock shrugged, looking at his tears hit the mess of the food he had made.

"I think..." He breathed. "I need help."

But I don't know if I want it, he added in his mind. I just want this to end.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay. This is a mess I wrote at 4 am. I don't know whether I'll delete it or keep it yet. I'm just tired and wanted to vent a bit. But I think it ended up weird. I'm not really satisfied with it. I think it's maybe out of character? I don't know.
> 
> Anyways, I did my best. I hope you liked it and please, I could really use some feedback if you had the time. So I can improve. 
> 
> As always, I don't encourage this behaviour and I try not to romanticize it. Try to be true in the projection of the illness.
> 
> If you feel this way, please seek help~


End file.
